


A Doctor's Touch

by Reiya_Wakayama



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, First Meetings, Mild Gore, Minor Character Death, Murder, Season 1 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-07-14
Updated: 2011-07-14
Packaged: 2017-10-21 09:45:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/223816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reiya_Wakayama/pseuds/Reiya_Wakayama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When his network of homeless people come to him with a case about one of their own who’s gone missing, how can he refuse? The only problem, no one knows who he is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Doctor's Touch

He leaned against the old brickwork of the rundown building. The red of the brick was faded from weather and chemicals in the air to a dirty grayish brown. Here and there, graffiti dotted the wall, often covering older paint from someone else’s art.

Taking another drag from his cigarette, he waited. He was good at waiting, having had years of practice and experience. Overhead, the sky was blocked out by the dirty concrete of a bridge, the rumble of traffic muted.

Pulling out the small slip of paper in his pocket, he looked it over again, though he’d already memorized everything he could about it. The paper was just random litter, most likely standard printing paper, dirty and torn, the edges frayed, the whole thing crisscrossed with folds. The pen used was a generic ball point pen, the ink black, the handwriting a clumsy scrawl of someone self-taught and unaccustomed to writing often. The slant of it proclaimed the writer to be right handed, the curving of the letters stating a woman, between twenty and thirty years of age.

The message was simple and was only one line long: ‘We require your assistance.’ Nothing more, no location to meet, or time or date or even whom it was that was asking for his help, but he didn’t need it. He knew who had left it on his doorstep. He didn’t need a location, date, or time; they would know where he was and would meet up with him. It was only a matter of waiting for them to arrive.

Taking another drag of his cigarette, he dropped it, crushing it under the heel of his shoe and pushing off from the wall. Coat flapping around his form dramatically, he strode across the street, towards a dimly lit alley.

It was littered with trash, a couple of bins knocked over, spilling out their insides across the dirty concrete. Ignoring it, he kept walking, steps sure as he descended further into the bowels of a part of London that most people did not know existed or avoided at all costs. It was here his network thrived, spread out all across the great city, hidden from the rest of the city.

The dark maw of a shadowed arch came into view. Slowing, he stopped just before it and leaned against the wall, back to the stonework. His long pale fingers fished out another cigarette, lighting it with a flick of his lighter, and took a long pull of it, feeling the nicotine slid through his blood. “You called for me.” He said lowly, ignoring the huddled figure in the shadows beside him, letting his eyes trace the pattern of cracks on the opposite wall.

A rustle of cloth, shoes scuffing concrete and then they spoke up, voice tired and husky, most likely from years spent as a smoker. “He first appeared four months ago. No one knew him, or where he’d come from. He’d never been homeless before and we taught him how to live. In return, he helped us in his own way. He fixed us up, was able to get some medication for those, not sure how. Said he had trained to be a doctor and still had friends who were.”

He remained still as she spoke, breathing even, and waiting for her to continue. “Two weeks ago, he left to visit one of the more sicker ones across the city. He never arrived, never came back, and no one has seen him since.”

He lets the information given sink in, the programs on his hard drive of a brain getting to work sorting it into categories, more sifting through it, drawing out grains of information that few would notice. A doctor, recently homeless which pointed to being either low on funds or a bad doctor who was unable to find work. The latter seemed highly unlikely if his network was allowing him to ‘fix’ them up. The low funds could be multiple things; London was an expensive place to live. Recently homeless, living off the street for only four months, recently returned home and unable to keep up rent from the earlier deduced lacking of funds, but unwilling to go to family for help. That pointed to a military doctor, recently home, most likely discharged, more data needed to know what kind of discharge.

“Describe him.” He ordered, mind still whirring as she spoke.

“Short, under five ten, compact, blonde hair, blue eyes, limped, used a cane, over thirty.” He nodded. He had enough to get to looking up who this mysterious doctor was. Once he had sufficient data, he could begin the search.

“I’ll be in contact.” He didn’t even glance back as he pushed off the wall and walked off, back towards the main roads to hail a taxi.

~*~

He looked up from one of his experiments as his phone went off, signaling a text. **‘Assistant on way with requested information, ETA 15 min. Mycroft’** Snorting in disdain, he finished what he was doing, setting the completed experiment aside just as someone knocked at his door.

Walking over, he yanked the door open, glaring at the brunette woman who stood on his door step. She didn’t even glance at him, holding out a manila envelope towards him with her eyes fixed on her blackberry, texting rapidly one handed.

Snatching it from her loose fingers, he shut the door in her face, stalking over to throw himself on to his couch, opening the envelope. Inside were a few sheets of paper, the type a stark slash of black against the crisp white of the paper.

He couldn’t stand his brother, but even he had to admit Mycroft was useful. The list of people with brief descriptions and pictures was short, containing only ten candidates to search through. They were all vaguely similar, blonde, blue eyed, all mid to late thirties with military haircuts and posture. It was a start. Jumping up, he slung his coat on, storming out of the flat and into the darkness of London at night.

~*~

“This one.” The boy in front of him was barely seventeen, his clothing a mixed array of threadbare garments and things gotten at charity places. It was colorful and subdued, covered by the huge jacket that swamped his thin frame, malnutrition and drugs eating away at his body, and making him look bigger than he was.

Sherlock had only been waiting a few minutes before the boy had walked up to him from where he leaned against the rail that ran along the edge of a nearby park. The park was deserted at this hour but for the homeless who wandered its grassy lawns and the few people who were stumbling home drunk.

He had positioned himself nearby a street lamp that gave enough light to read the paper by. The picture he pointed out was hard to make out in the dim light, but he could still recall the picture from his brief scan earlier. John Watson recently discharged from her majesty’s army. Deployed as army surgeon, was shot in the shoulder and honorably discharged and sent back to London. Both parents dead, one sister, Harriet Watson. Diagnosed with PTSD, a psychosomatic limp, and a tremor in his left hand. His last session with his therapist before he had stopped going had reported him with trust issues.

Nodding to the boy, he left, fading into the shadows effortlessly. His flat was empty of life, Mrs. Hudson downstairs was asleep, her low snores just audible through the door to her flat. Settling down onto his sofa, he pulled his laptop forward.

A chat box appeared on the screen. He typed in two words and closed the thing off. A few minutes later, an email appeared in his inbox, a file attached to his brief message. _‘Try not to cause too much trouble. Mycroft’_. Ignoring it, he opened the file and started to work his way through all the information.

~*~

The sound of feet on the stairs had him looking up as Mrs. Hudson led someone up. Lestrade, his hair wind swept and a little damp, followed behind her, face grim. “What’s happened?” he asked, standing and setting the book he had been reading aside: _‘A Study of Ancient Poisons’_.

“A murder.” He said softly.

“Well, tell me details. Where, when, how?” he demanded irritably.

“This isn’t a case for you Sherlock, it’s an investigation.” He informed, stopping Sherlock’s questions momentarily.

“Who?” He asked instead, thinking momentarily that it might be Mycroft before dismissing the notion. If Mycroft was dead, he would have been informed the moment of, not hours after.

“Mike Stamford. Worked at Bart’s.”

He knew Mike, had worked with him a few times. He was a passable doctor, good for keeping others calm and for doing the boring tests that were often required in his experiments and cases. “Who found him?”

“Molly Hooper. Poor girl was white as a sheet when we got there. She’s been taken in for a statement. Can you think of anyone who might have had a grudge on Stamford, any enemies he might have made?” Lestrade asked, eyeing the way Sherlock’s foot tapped as he thought.

“Not that I know of. I knew him only at Bart’s and we did not socialize. I can be of help if you let me on the scene.” He informed the DI, looking at him.

“I know, but had to get protocol out of the way and make sure there was no connection to the victim besides working together a few times. It’s at Bart’s, in the lab. He must have been working late.”

“I’ll follow in a cab.” Lestrade nodded and left, Mrs. Hudson watching worriedly from her flat doorway. “I’ll be late Mrs. Hudson, don’t stay up.”

“You be careful now Sherlock. It maybe only is a happenstance, but it’s a bit close for comfort.” She warned. For all he knew, she was right and this was a message from one of his many enemies to warn him off. Shrugging mentally, he reassured her with a smile. He hadn’t gotten this far in life being careful, he wasn’t about to start now. Grabbing his coat, he strode down the stairs, hailing a taxi as he stepped out on the street.

~*~

The body was on the floor from where he had landed after the force of the bullet to his head had knocked him off his stool. Blood covered the instruments and experiments that littered the island counter.

Sherlock knelt down next to him, looking him over. Stamford’s face was gone, torn off by the bullet as it forced its way through his skull. Point blank range at the back of the head. So long as the shooter had stood directly behind him, he would not have gotten any gore on his clothing except maybe a few drops from the entry point.

There wasn’t much else to go on here. They knew who he was and what he did. The only thing left to figure out was who had killed him and why. He could figure it out, but not with the data he had at the moment. “CCTV?” he asked, still examining.

“We’re pulling the footage right now. I’ll let you know as soon as it is in. TOD was set at just after midnight. The security on duty said he arrived around 11:45 to collect something he needed. They didn’t hear the shot and assumed he took another exit out. Molly Hooper was making her rounds this morning when she found him. She called soon after.”

Sherlock nodded, storing the data for later. “That leaves just over fifteen minutes for the shooter to find him and kill him. If he was a professional, he was here from the beginning and stayed after everything was locked up. Whoever the shooter was, he didn’t hesitate, didn’t make a sound. Stamford never knew the man was in the room.”

Sherlock looked up just as someone turned and started to walk away, the lights shining off of blond, short cut hair. Standing, he started to follow, making some remark to Lestrade as he followed the man. Just as he left the lab, the man turned the corner, leaning heavily on his cane, but his back was ramrod straight.

Picking up his pace, he turned the corner to see an empty hallway. Arching a brow, he left, mind turning over this new development as the cab took him home. It was already dark out by the time he pulled up in front of 221b Baker St. Paying the cabbie, he raced for the door, an idea forming in his mind that he needed to confirm.

Pulling out his laptop, he booted it up, foot tapping agitatedly as he waited for it to come online. Quickly bringing up the internet, he typed in a specific web address. St. Bart’s kept records of its current and past students, even so far as to have digital scans of year book pictures and class photos. It wasn’t hard to find Stamford picture and name amongst the many that occupied the page…and there near the bottom, typed out in neat letters was ‘Watson, John H.’. He stood next to Mike and a group of their classmates, smiling at the camera. This was getting more complex than he had anticipated.

~*~

He’d had his suspicions, but had felt that he should leave the job of finding the killer to Scotland Yard. Two days later, they found the killer, the security guard, shot with his own gun through the head. When examined, the bullet was an exact match to the one that had killed Stamford. Suicide or murder, Sherlock cared not, he had other things on his mind, mainly this John Watson that still eluded him and his network.

Tossing the newspaper aside with its blazing headlines about three serial suicides, he started to pace. Stopping at the window, he stared out at the oncoming dark gray clouds, shoving the lighter gray ones aside. There was going to be rain tonight. Glancing down as one of Scotland Yard’s cars pulled up, he watched Lestrade walk into the building.

“Where?” He asked as Lestrade came to a stop in the doorway.

“Brigston, Lauriston Gardens.” He didn’t even question how Sherlock knew, just answered.

“What’s new about this one? You wouldn’t have come unless there was something new.” He reasoned, looking at him sharply as he waited for the DI’s answer.

“You know how they never leave notes?” Sherlock nodded. “Well, this one did. Will you come?”

“Who’s on forensics?” He asked instead, avoiding the question at the moment.

“Anderson.”

“He doesn’t work well with me.” That’s hadn’t stopped him before, but he felt like making Lestrade work a little to get him to come. It would at least take his mind of a certain ex-army doctor for a little bit.

“He won’t be your assistant.” He tried to work him over.

“I need an assistant.” Sherlock insisted.

“Will you come?”

“Not in the police car, I’ll be right behind you.” He finally conceded, mentally bouncing up and down at the possibility of a new interesting case. Nodding with a grateful look on his face, the DI left, his car pulling away from the curb.

Trembling a little with excitement, he gathered his things. “I’ll be out late. Some food would be nice when I get back.” He said as the landlady walked in.

“I’m your landlady, not your house keeper.” She admonished good naturedly.

“Don’t wait up, Mrs. Hudson.” He called as he shut the door.

~*~

By the time he had returned home, he had the woman’s case, an obnoxious shade of pink, and knew enough of her story to make some theories on who had killed her and the other three. But first, who was Rachael?

Going through the case, he wasn’t surprised to see the phone missing. A woman like that wouldn’t have left it and he doubted she had dropped it. So someone had nicked it, the killer or a common thief, but it was definitely gone.

Sending a text through a secondary phone he kept on hand just for these sort of thing, paid for from Mycroft’s accounts, he waited before heading out. The chase of the cab from Angelo’s is purposeless as the man in the cab as a perfect alibi. Jogging away from the scene when the man talks to an actual police officer, he makes it back to his flat.

He paces the three steps from wall to wall, thinking, muttering to himself. “Who hunts in a crowd unseen?” Just as he’s about to pull his hair in frustration, the mail flap opens and a slip of paper falls to the floor.

Bounding forward, he picks it up. ‘Cabbie.’ The writing is neat, the paper from a note pad of some shipping company. Opening the door, he looks around, but he knows whoever left the note is probably long gone by now.

Sighing in frustration, he slams the door closed. Whoever it was that left it is smart to make the leap. Who do you trust with your life to drive you from point A to point B? A blind trust it would seem since he also does it as well.

“Sherlock, what have you done?” Mrs. Hudson cried softly, coming out of her flat. She’s pointing up to his flat. Leaping up the stairs, he finds Lestrade and his people combing the flat. His mind is still whirring, in constant motion, even as he argues with the man.

“Sherlock, there’s a cab down stairs for you?” Mrs. Hudson says, coming in looking worried.

“I didn’t order a cab.” He snipes pacing back and forth, trying to put the last few pieces together.

“Sherlock, your cab?” She asks again.

“Mrs. Hudson!” He finally yells at her, looking up and then it clicks. “OH!” Taking his computer out, he puts in the web site, pulling up the tracker on her phone. Really, is everyone an idiot? Well not everyone. Leaving them to worry over the phones location, he slips downstairs to where the cabbie is waiting.

~*~

“Who is your benefactor? Your sponsor? I want a name.” He presses down on the wound.

Crying out, he finally gives the name in a yell, “Moriarty!” He’s passed out before Sherlock can think of anything else to ask him. He will be dead before the ambulance gets here.

Looking at the hole in the window and the open one across the way, he ponders the mystery of his invisible guardian.

Lestrade is none too pleased, but he finally lets him go after giving him the particulars of the shooter. Mycroft, he ignores, only shooting him a glare and a “Good Evening, Mycroft” before walking past. He will be expecting him sometime on the morrow to ‘talk’.

The sound of a footstep down a side alley draws his attention. It is dark, but enough light from nearby lamps cast a silhouette of a man limping down the back alley, cane supporting him. It is too much of a coincidence to pass up.

He follows down the alley and comes to a stop with a cane at his throat and a gun pointed at his head. “Mr. Holmes, why do you insist on following me?” His voice is about midrange, roughened by the threat Sherlock presents and makes it lower. He is of stocky build, shorter than Sherlock. His hair has grown much since the photo that Sherlock has of him was taken, but it is still cut short. Blue eyes glare fire at him, waiting for his answer.

“I was hired by my clients to find you after you disappeared to the point even they could not find you.” He answered truthfully.

“And payment?” he asked, though his cane lowers, but not his gun.

“They pay me with information when I need the eyes and ears of London.” He held Watson’s gaze and slowly the gun lowered, but did not get put away. “I must say, you fake a limp very well.”

Watson smirked a little at that. “I’ve had one for some months, not hard to follow an old routine. Still have it on bad days. Better to keep it and not need it than to need it and not have it.”

“Are you alright?” He asked, eyeing the man.

“Yes, fine, why wouldn’t I be?” He asked, looking a little wary again.

“Well, you have just killed a man.” He appeared to not even be fazed by it which could mean a few things about his psyche.

“Yes, but he wasn’t a very nice man…and you are an idiot for following him.”

Sherlock shrugged. “Occupational hazard. If I may ask, why have you gone to ground as you have? The war has yet to reach London, or so I am told.” Mycroft would have informed him if it had. He could rely on him for that much at least.

“You’re thinking of the wrong war and I’m not fighting in it, I’m avoiding it.” He answered ambiguously.

“Who are you hiding from?” Sherlock asked, reading between the lines of his words.

“You’ll meet him, or you already have and don’t know it yet. If I were you, I’d beware. He doesn’t like to play fair and will hit weak spots. Just look at Mike. Prepare for the worst.” He pushed off from the wall, cane unneeded at the moment. “Good night, Mr. Holmes.”

**Author's Note:**

> In case you are wondering about this world, in this, John never met Sherlock through Mike. He is homeless after running out of money when his pension runs dry. Won’t say much yet, but he gets on the wrong side of Moriarty and is hiding from him while trying to keep a certain consulting detective alive since he can see that Sherlock is a match for Moriarty. Just to clear up some confusion.


End file.
